


Hats Off to the Milliner's Daughter

by cefyr



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Genre: Arguably casefic - but only barely, F/F, Hats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 12:13:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17043521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cefyr/pseuds/cefyr
Summary: In Mr. Poirot's absence, Miss Lemon takes on a case by herself. But all is not what it seems!





	Hats Off to the Milliner's Daughter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cân Cennau (gwenynnefydd)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenynnefydd/gifts).



It all started on a dreary February afternoon in Miss Lemon's office at Whitehaven Mansions. Being the secretary of a well-known private detective had its advantages and its disadvantages, and Miss Lemon was not quite sure whether people approaching her instead of Mr. Poirot to ask for help counted in the first or the second group. On the one hand, her position as the first obstacle for prospective clients to encounter meant that she could easily filter away those whose problems were quite obviously not the kind a private detective could solve. On the other hand, it did leave her with less time to ponder the ins and outs of her soon-to-be-finished filing system, except in wondering where the prospective clients might fit.

On this particular Tuesday afternoon, Miss Lemon had encountered no less than three ladies who were worried about their domestic help ("Elsie is usually so reliable, but I'm afraid she's fallen in with a bad crowd recently; it is twice now that she has come home late from her half-day off"), two Civil Servants of indeterminate age who could not be made to tell her, or indeed anyone, what the problem was (citing National Interest), and half a dozen giggling schoolgirls who after much internal conferring produced what might eventually turn out to be a vital clue for one of Mr. Poirot's ongoing cases. Thus, when the next visitor arrived, slipping through the door and sliding onto the chair opposite her as if the wind had blown her there, Miss Lemon merely sighed inwardly and prepared herself for putting another tick in the column of "Unrelated Issues: Domestic" on her report of today's clients.

The client was obviously one of those women who flutter through life as if time itself merely pushes them around from moment to moment, with no idea of where they're going and merely a vague thought of what they want out of life. She looked as if she had started dressing when fringe was the height of fashion, and then later with the same eagerness embraced the concept of decorative frills. Her hair was a golden halo of slightly wind-blown permanent waves topped by a hat that must have stayed on her head through some divine intervention, and her blue eyes expressed a complete lack of higher thought. She might have been anywhere between twenty-five and forty years of age.

'I'm so sorry,' she said, breathlessly. 'But I simply had to know whether you could help me—I know it's probably too much to ask, but I thought I might at least try.' Apparently realising that she had not been very clear at all, she added: 'My name is Eleanor Verne—the milliners, you know.'

'Of course,' said Miss Lemon, who was used to this sort of conversation. She searched her memory for a moment. 'You are the daughter of the late Charles Verne, the hat magnate.'

'Oh, yes—that's the problem,' said Miss Verne. 'You see, he is being blackmailed.'

'But Mr. Verne died almost ten years ago.'

'It is all very awkward,' agreed Miss Verne. 'I brought the first letter with me, if you wish to read it?'

Miss Lemon adjusted her glasses and reached for the letter. It consisted of cut-out newspaper words and letters, neatly pasted onto a sheet of paper. The message implied that it would be in Miss Verne's best interest to listen to future demands in return for a bundle of letters, the publication of which would be disastrous to the reputation of the Verne family. One such compromising letter was helpfully attached by means of a paper clip. Miss Lemon glanced at it and was suddenly thankful that her make-up was so heavy that few blushes could be seen through the powder.

'This is quite—racy,' she said. 'Have you read it?'

'I only glanced through it.'

'You have no idea who this woman may be, the one he wrote to? I noticed that they are addressed only to "my darling", with no name attached.'

'Oh, no,' said Miss Verne. 'I have no idea at all. Won't you help—that is—won't you ask Mr. Poirot to help me? I really don't know what will happen if this comes out. It wouldn't be good for business at all—or so I'm told.'

'I'm afraid Mr. Poirot is out of the country at the moment,' said Miss Lemon. 'I'm not sure know when he'll be back. I could ask him to contact you then? Or perhaps,' some strange impulse made her add, 'I could see if there's anything I could do? Since no demands have been made as of yet, it seems more like a game of intimidation at the moment.'

'Oh, would you? Oh, that would be splendid! I would feel quite safe knowing I could come to you when another letter arrives,' exclaimed Miss Verne, with the kind of shy smile that would have made any gentleman hasten to offer to help her in any way he could. Miss Lemon, who was used to these femme fatales smiling like that at everyone out of habit, nodded politely and noted down Miss Verne's name and address so that the case would be filed correctly.

With no other evidence, there was nothing more to be done but wait. So Miss Verne left, and in came the next prospective client, a jeweller who was afraid that an international gang was trying to implicate his aunt in a heist involving priceless rubies. This complicated story required Miss Lemon's undivided attention, and she filed the question of the undemanding blackmailer in the back of her head to think about later.

 

* * *

 

'The Case of the Undemanding Blackmailer' was a good name for a mystery novel, Miss Lemon decided a few days later. Mr. Poirot was now engaged in some strange business on the Continent, which according to his latest letter to Captain Hastings currently involved three European ducal houses, a leading racing-car manufacturer and an underground armament-smuggling system. He did not doubt that she and Captain Hastings would be able to 'hold the fort' until he returned. Miss Lemon was not quite as trusting of Captain Hastings' capabilities of detecting, and had thus spent most of her time declining any new clients. She spent her days reorganising her case files, cleaning up documentation—and, a couple of times a week, wondering what on earth was going on with Miss Verne's blackmailer, who thus far had refused to actually perform any kind of blackmailing activities that one could investigate.

'I just don't understand it,' she told Miss Verne when they met in a tea-shop near Piccadilly Circus, Miss Verne apparently hoping that she might compensate for the tedium of discussing criminal matters by at least offering to discuss it over tea. 'What is this blackmailer trying to achieve by merely sending you bits and pieces of your father's old love letters accompanied by vague threats?'

Miss Verne bit her lip. 'It doesn't seem very well thought out,' she admitted. 'Perhaps they think by the time they make any demand of me I will have been so shocked by the letters that I'll agree to anything?'

'They aren't very shocking, though', said Miss Lemon, who sometimes could not bring herself pretend. 'I understand that for a daughter to read her father's love letters might be awkward, but they are not actually obscene, although they come close to it at some points. No, as love letters they are nothing to be ashamed of.'

'Oh!' said Miss Verne, looking somewhat cheered by this information.

 

* * *

 

Over the next couple of weeks, Miss Lemon had more tea than at any time before in her life. Even after having been reassured that she suffered no mental strain from reading the missives from the blackmailer, Miss Verne insisted on taking their meetings to discuss the case out of Miss Lemon's office, and so they did over a few weeks cover three tea-shops, two tiny French restaurants, one visit to the British Museum and a most memorable walk in Hyde Park where, during a sudden hailstorm, they had to take cover beneath a tree and were almost mistaken for spies exchanging secret information.

'I expect you deal with this sort of adventure almost daily,' said Miss Verne after the Government agents had apologised and left the two of them beneath the tree. 'If what I read in the papers is true—'

'It really isn't,' said Miss Lemon. 'I do the filing, mostly, and some research. There is no jumping off moving trains and car chases—or almost none.' She took one look at her companion's face, and once again something compelled her to add: 'I did once threaten a man with a pistol—a member of the House of Lords, at that! And Captain Hastings claims I saved his life, although I'm quite sure he would have been able to stop the car on his own if he had tried.'

'Oh, dear!' said Miss Verne, looking gratifyingly impressed. 'That sounds terribly exciting. I'm sure you were very good at it, too. I mostly deal with meetings and typing up reports.'

Miss Lemon, suddenly finding herself in the position of the hero in front of a spell-bound audience, did her best to measure up to the expectations, and spent their walk back to her office trying to wring every last drop of thrills out of the cases she had actively participated in. Miss Verne was indeed a very good listener, and Miss Lemon couldn't help but compare her to her unfortunate former fiance Edwin Graves, who had added to his other sins that of also being the kind of person who made others feel boring when they talked to him.

 

* * *

 

'This is not a very good idea, is it?' Miss Lemon said to herself when this had gone on for a number of weeks. She looked in the mirror, carefully fixing her newest hat on her head and making sure the curls on her forehead were evenly spaced. 'Edwin was a crook, and I have no reason to believe Miss Verne won't leave as soon as this case is finished—either way I have a deplorable taste in people; I always fall for the complicated ones. But do I say something anyway, or do I keep silent? What if I have imagined things? Or indeed, what if I _haven't_?'

'I say, did you want something, or are you just talking to yourself?' said Captain Hastings, popping his head in from the hall.

'I'm perfectly alright, thank you,' said Miss Lemon hurriedly, which wasn't really an answer, but seemed to satisfy him anyway, as he buried his head in his newspaper again.

'Look here,' he said a moment later, 'I've been following this horoscope in the paper, and it beats me how they manage to hit the spot every time. Listen to this: "Tiny expenses add up over time, but so do tiny savings! Try to save more than you spend today." And here I was, wondering whether to invest in these very promising-looking Alaskan copper mining stocks my friend at the club told me about. It's amazing what they know!'

'Indeed,' said Miss Lemon, her mind still on her own problems. She hesitated slightly before giving in. 'What's the advice for me?'

'Lets see. "Today is a day for making decisions, whether big or small. Don't hesitate to do what feels right to you, and follow your heart, especially when friends are involved." Are you planning to make any decisions involving friends today?'

'I just might,' said Miss Lemon, feeling suddenly reckless. 'I'm taking the rest of the day off, by the way—is there anything more for me to do before I go?'

'Nothing that I know—oh, wait! The bill from your hatter turned up at last. It must have been lost in the post. Here it is.'

Miss Lemon glanced at the paper, automatically checking that the numbers were correct. Yes, this must have been that rather fetching reddish-brown one she had wanted altered. Then her eyes were caught by the signature at the bottom—apparently the owner of the hat-shop had signed off on the alteration order herself, and the handwriting was all too familiar.

'I must rush,' she told a somewhat bemused Captain Hastings, snatching the paper from his hand and hurrying out the door. She didn't know whether it was eagerness or anger that made her steps quicker, but she was glad that today's rendezvous with Miss Verne was to take place in one of those cosy tea-rooms where the acoustics were such that you were practically impossible to overhear even from the next table.

Miss Verne was waiting for her inside, looking like her usual ethereally wind-blown self. Her coat was a dazzling white, and her hat was some kind of felted grey snowflake affair. Miss Lemon had no idea what to say. She laid the hat receipt on the table, and added one of the love letters. Miss Verne looked at them, cast a quick glance at Miss Lemon and bit her lip, looking down.

'The handwriting is the same,' said Miss Lemon, when no explanation seemed forthcoming. 'You wrote those letters yourself, didn't you?'

'I _am_ sorry,' said Miss Verne, still looking down. 'It was simply the only thing I could think of to catch your eye. We lead such very different lives, you know, and I couldn't help wanting—'

'Wanting what?'

'I do think Father would have approved,' said Miss Verne, fixing her gaze on Miss Lemon in a way that was just as distracting as she meant it to be, if not more. 'I'm afraid I didn't have a very conventional upbringing. It was just him and me, and since I was his only heir he expected me to act like the son he never had.'

Miss Lemon tried, and failed, to imagine Miss Verne as the only son of a hat magnate, taking control and issuing orders to staff. 'And did you do that?' she asked, feeling as if the conversation was quietly slipping out of her grip.

'Oh, yes, I took over the company as his health declined a couple of years before his death, and I've been running it since then. Like I said, it's really very much a question of reports and handling meetings,' said Miss Verne, looking every inch the frail damsel. Miss Lemon felt the beginnings of a headache.

'I'm afraid I'm rather used to letting the ends justify the means, when I really want something,' said Miss Verne, still inexplicably wearing the innocently wide-eyed face of an Arthurian lady in a poem. 'You must think it horribly forward of me to run after you like this, but I saw you in the shop, the one just around the corner, one day in September, when I was there to check their window displays. You were wearing a rust-coloured hat, one I had helped design, and I was quite—that is, I couldn't stop thinking about you and—well, there you have it.'

'So you orchestrated this blackmailing scheme, just in order to—meet me?'

'I thought—well—if I could just see you again—if I had a reason—'

'To meet me?' Miss Lemon repeated, somewhat dazed. 'You could have asked.'

'I could?'

'Certainly,' said Miss Lemon, not quite sure whether the question concerned Miss Verne's current or earlier actions. The shyly triumphant smile that spread over Miss Verne's face at her answer confirmed her suspicions that she had in fact answered a question about the present.

'You write very fine love letters,' she found herself adding, still only half believing this conversation was taking place here and now and with her involved.

Miss Verne looked down at the papers still lying next to each other on the table, and a deep blush spread slowly over her cheeks. 'You didn't find them—contrived?' she said. 'I'm so glad; I had only those few minutes of seeing you to go on, you see, because I didn't know you at all then, and of course I couldn't adapt the later letters to what I knew when I had met you again, or you would have known it was me writing them.'

She looked so reasonable then, even while explaining her scheme of half-baked seduction through non-existent blackmail, and all at once Miss Lemon could easily see how this woman might lead her small empire of high-quality hat shops with people following her every whim, with every man in the management quite convinced she wasn't leading them, but merely encouraging them from the sidelines. She felt ridiculously honoured to be the object of that attention.

Miss Verne folded the papers on the table; she still hadn't looked up. She bit her lip again, as if unsure how to continue the conversation. Miss Lemon reached out to take the papers, and when she recalled Captain Hastings' horoscope reading she couldn't hold back a smile.

'A little bird told me,' she confided, 'that today is a day for making decisions that feel right to me, and to follow my heart.'

'Oh, yes?'

'I think I already did,' said Miss Lemon, reaching out again over the table and taking Miss Verne's hand.

 

* * *

 

'I say, that hat looks smashing on you,' said Captain Hastings some days later, when Miss Lemon ran into him on her way out of the office. 'Not,' he hastened to add, 'that you don't always look smart, but there's something more to it these days. Am I right that it's the hat? Is it new?'

'It's very kind of you to say so, Captain Hastings. It's really an old hat made new—I've had it altered, and I'm really very fond of it.'

'Speaking of hats, you took care of a case concerning hats a while ago, didn't you? Blackmail or something? How did that go?'

'Oh, that?' said Miss Lemon, silently cursing her friend's sudden attacks of good memory. 'It turned out to be nothing—a misunderstanding. A lady who felt the need to resort to writing letters where a simple request would have sufficed. I sorted it out quietly.'

'A lady, eh? I'll never understand women. They always seem to make things so complicated.' Captain Hastings shook his head, bewildered. 'Not you, of course,' he added. 'But—other women. Why do they do things?'

'Why, indeed, Captain Hastings,' said Miss Lemon, smiling to herself. She kept smiling as she walked down the stairs, and turned left on the street, walking quickly the few blocks to her destination. Her smile grew as she knocked on the door and was ushered in by Miss Verne, who had dismissed her maid for the day and looked delighted to be playing a part in an actual illicit affair.

'Captain Hastings told me my hat looked more smashing than usual,' said Miss Lemon, taking off her coat.

'Your hat?' said Miss Verne, whose mind was clearly not on her work at the moment.

'I quite agree with him,' said Miss Lemon. 'You did some splendid work on it.'

'Oh!' said Miss Verne. She bit her lip again, a gesture which Miss Lemon had grown extraordinarily fond of. 'You had better take it off then,' she added, stepping in close. 'I have made so many plans for the afternoon, and none of them involve either of us wearing a hat.'


End file.
